


raven in a field of rye, with a black and roving eye

by thatsparrow



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Drinking Games, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26890729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: "It's late, Captain Vane," Eleanor says, clipped. "Whatever business you'd like to discuss can wait until the morning.""And if I'm not here on business?" He raises the bottle and glasses in answer to her look of confusion, rewarded by the uptick of her eyebrows, a twitch at the corner of her mouth."The bar is downstairs.""It's not the drink I'm after, but the company."
Relationships: Eleanor Guthrie/Charles Vane
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22
Collections: Writing Rainbow Black





	raven in a field of rye, with a black and roving eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorinaLannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts).



> set nebulously before teach's departure from nassau
> 
> title from "young man in america" by anaïs mitchell

Eleanor is at work still; Charles can see the glow of lamplight under the lip of the door. It's nearly midnight, but she's spent longer hours in that office since assuming her father's position, her agile fingers peppered black with ink stains, her shoulders pulled back and and chin held firm despite the weariness that must be worn down into her bones. So very determined to prove herself to Nassau's captains, leering at her from across the desk as she pretends not to notice while tallying up their profits. Hell-bent on refashioning the island's image of her into something as solid and impenetrable as the stone walls of the fortress, to cement her defenses with equal parts respect and authority until no one dares fuck with her; Charles is well familiar with that aim, even if he always found it more effective to build his own foundations on fear instead. But she'll run herself dry before the season is done if she keeps up like this, and Eleanor Guthrie has too bright a future on the horizon to fade into a footnote of Nassau's history, so here Charles stands, whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other, intent on seeing some of the tension bled free from her wound-tight shoulders (and if, in the process, he has occasion to spend some time with her, who is he to question good fortune?)

He knocks on the door. There's a pause, then equal parts wariness and curiosity in Eleanor's voice when she calls out, "Come in." Lucky that Mr. Scott is away on business at the moment, else Charles would never be allowed in the room alone with her, particularly at this hour. Eleanor looks up when he enters, brow creasing slightly when she sees him.

"It's late, Captain Vane," she says, clipped. "Whatever business you'd like to discuss can wait until the morning."

"And if I'm not here on business?" He raises the bottle and glasses in answer to her look of confusion, rewarded by the uptick of her eyebrows, a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

"The bar is downstairs."

"It's not the drink I'm after, but the company."

She raises an eyebrow. "If you're hoping to negotiate improved rates for your cargo—"

"Like I said, I'm not here on business." Charles walks over to the desk, waits, and after a moment, Eleanor gives a nod to the chair on the opposite side. In another man's office, Charles wouldn't shy from making himself comfortable, sprawled back in his seat and boots propped up, but he has no doubt Eleanor would have little patience for that, and he isn't ready to be rid of her company quite yet. So he acts the gentleman—what little of the role that he knows—setting the glasses on the wood's surface before pouring a generous share for them both, sitting as tall as any of those proud, lily-white London lords. He raises his cup in a toast and Eleanor reciprocates, clinking her glass gently against his before taking a measured sip. Charles does the same, albeit indulging considerably deeper. 

"So," Eleanor says, leaning back in her own chair, watching him carefully. "If you're not looking to discuss business, why are you here?"

In this, Charles must be particular with his words; undoubtedly Eleanor would neither accept nor appreciate any motive that hinted at pity—not to say that he pities her, not in the slightest, but she's been patronized enough in her new position that he wouldn't begrudge her for mistaking concern for veiled scorn (not that he'd admit to being concerned for her, either.) He takes another drink. "Have you ever played Liar's Remorse?"

Eleanor frowns. "I can't say that I have."

"It's a simple drinking game, the sort used to pass long hours at sea. We take turn asking each other questions—if you'd prefer not to answer, you drink. If you tell a lie and are caught, you drink twice. If you are accused of telling a lie and are, in fact, telling the truth, your accuser drinks." He grins at her around the lip of his glass. "Care to try?"

Her brows pull together slightly. "How do you win?"

Charles laughs. "It's not about winning."

"Every game is about winning."

Not just games, he'd wager, but conversations, business transactions—fuck, even relationships. With a father like hers, with the life she's chosen, likely Eleanor can't afford anything else. "I'm sure you'll find a way."

Eleanor takes another sip, considering. She glances from Charles to the piles of papers around her desk. "I do have more pressing matters that I should attend to."

"I thought that business could wait until the morning?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "Your business, not mine. Perhaps another night, Captain Vane."

Charles nods. "Very well, duty calls. Mr. Scott would approve—undoubtedly your paperwork is a safer companion than myself." He stands from the chair, picking up his glass as he does. "I'd take the bottle, too, but I have a feeling that your need for it is greater than my own. Enjoy your evening, Ms. Guthrie." It's not a particularly subtle gambit, but Charles is willing to chance that Eleanor feels enough needling resentment at the well-meaning paternal guidance that so often surrounds her—that has her so penned in she barely has room to move—for her to indulge in something for the sake of amusement rather than business, even if only for one night. Still, Eleanor nearly lets him reach the door before she says, "One drink, then, and the first question is mine."

"I'd expect nothing else," Charles says, turning to resume his seat. He tops up his glass, then inclines his head briefly towards her. "Whenever you're ready."

Eleanor considers him again, swilling the glass lightly in one hand. "Who were you, before Nassau?"

Had there been a sip of whiskey in his mouth, Charles likely would have choked on it. Instead, his mouth twists a little. "You don't waste time, do you?"

"You were the one who set no parameters on the questions. Why should I delay when I already know the answers I'm interested in?"

Charles nods, conceding. "Fair enough. Before Nassau I was—" _a slave, a runaway, a frightened child̛_ , "—nobody."

Her frown is immediate. "That's not an answer."

"Sure it is. It's just not the answer that you were looking for."

"Then it's a lie," she says, holding him fast with that stare of hers, snaring him like a rudder in a tangle of ropes. "Everybody was somebody. It's not as if you sprang out of the sand on Nassua's beach fully formed."

"I might as well have."

Now it's her turn to grin. "So it _is_ a lie. It's the answer that you wish were true, not the truth itself."

She's clever enough to get herself into as much trouble as her wits will rescue her from, sharp as an oyster knife and hunting for the pearl within. Charles raises the glass to his mouth and drinks once, then again. "It's a preferred version of my past, I'll grant you that." Still, he keeps his sips smaller than he might otherwise; he figures it likely that she's resolute in holding him to one drink, and he'd like to take advantage of her company so long as she'll permit.

"So what is the truth, then?" she asks, still watching him with that careful, searching expression of hers. Charles smiles slightly. "I appreciate your boldness, Ms. Guthrie, but that story is one trusted to very few. As of now, I'm not willing to include you in that number."

Eleanor sits back in her chair, any disappointment she might be feeling tucked behind a practiced, neutral mask. "Of course, Captain Vane. I understand." She nods at him. "That would make it your question, then."

She'd wasted no time in playing coy about what she'd wanted to know, so neither does Charles. There's a great many things he'd like to ask her, answers he hopes to learn in the weeks and months ahead, but he starts with, "What do you want in life?"

Eleanor considers him, one eyebrow raised, searching no doubt for the intention or double-meaning behind the question. After a moment, she shrugs. "What anyone wants, I suppose—success, financial security, to leave one's mark upon the world."

"Sure," Charles says, unconvinced. "But what is it that _you_ want." He looks at Eleanor steady now, unflinching, until some of the careful neutrality in her expression chips away; underneath, he can see the whittled, flint-sharp edge in her eye that he remembers well from that afternoon on the beach, bold and hell-bent as a cannonball ripping through the hull of a ship.

"I want to leave Nassau better than I found it," she says at last, still holding his stare. "To build something meaningful out of my father's operation, enduring enough to last after I'm gone."

"Why is that?"

She shakes her head slightly, smiling. "I believe the next question is mine."

After their decisive opening shots, the conversation settles into a friendlier salvo. Charles learns of Eleanor's childhood on the island (relatively uneventful until the end, and happy enough, save for the shadow cast by her father's oft-spoken desire for a son), the first time she'd fired a pistol (age seven, under the tutelage of Mr. Scott and with strict orders to keep it quiet from her parents), and the greatest source of her displeasures in business (not Teach, as Charles had expected, but a fellow named Rowland who, as Eleanor describes, "treats every fucking visit here like he's on a trip to the brothel.") In turn, she learns the broad strokes of his apprenticeship under Teach (not dissimilar from the educations of most young men, excepting a far greater emphasis on the mastery of sword and pistol use), how he became acquainted with Jack and Anne (in the tavern, as it happened, after he overheard Jack nearly persuading a fellow player that the dealer was the one at fault for Anne having cheated at their game of cards), and of the first time that he killed someone (age eight, with a hand-sharpened stake taken to a man's neck, though Charles remains deliberately vague on any further details.) The lights burn low, but neither of their glasses are quite empty, and Charles is of no mood to call the evening to an end before Eleanor does (strangely enough, she seems of a similar mind.) Still, it's evident that she could use any rest afforded to her, and he won't see her worn low on his account.

The next question is Eleanor's, who asks, "Would you ever consider giving up piracy?" The answer is _no_ , for a host of reasons he has no qualms in elucidating, but instead Charles stays quiet and throws back the rest of his drink, the _I'd prefer not to answer_ response in the parlance of the game. Eleanor blinks at him in surprise. "I'm sorry, of everything we've discussed tonight, _that_ qualifies as too personal?"

Charles grins at her, easy. "Hardly. In fact, as you've likely already determined, there are few matters on which I'm not an open book. But it's grown later than I intended, and I think that particular answer will have to wait for another night."

Eleanor looks briefly thrown before some of that careful, businesswoman composure slides back into place. "Of course, Captain Vane. I hadn't meant to keep you."

"Believe me, I wouldn't have stayed if I hadn't wanted to." Charles pushes back his chair and stands. "Thank you, Ms. Guthrie, for the privilege of your time and the pleasure of your company."

She nods in acknowledgment, pauses, then says, "When it's just the two of us, I think 'Eleanor' is fine." Charles feels a flicker of anticipation at the promise of that. "And you're welcome, Captain Vane."

"Charles," he says, immediate. "Whether it's just the two of us, or whenever you'd like."

She rolls her eyes again, but Charles doesn't think he imagines the hint of amusement there. "Good night then, Charles."

"You as well, Eleanor."

He takes his leave then, the bottle still half-full in his hand, but as Charles makes his way toward his quarters on the beach, he feels as light and whiskey-warm as if he'd drained it to the dregs. _When it's just the two of us_. Perhaps he'll save the rest of it for next time. Perhaps instead he'll surprise her with something finer.


End file.
